


between the emotion and the response

by allumerlesoir



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Post-Armageddon, and i love these two, i love ts eliot, post armageddon, so this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 18:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19447576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allumerlesoir/pseuds/allumerlesoir
Summary: ...falls the shadow. Crowley and Aziraphale recuperate.





	between the emotion and the response

They sit on the bus together, and somehow, without making the conscious effort to reach out, Aziraphale finds Crowley's hand in his. They're quiet, as they have been since shouting half-hoped prayers into a distant above (and a distant below - as above, so below, after all) and words just haven't come so easily to either of them since. The threat of impending loss, even when it doesn't actually end in that threatened loss, can have that affect.

Instead of words, they touch, and Aziraphale isn't used to this manner of communication (and, he thinks, neither is Crowley). But he holds Crowley's hand in his, and eventually he strokes the back of it with his thumb, and eventually, Crowley turns to look at him. The fire inside of them has begun to die down.

"Angel, you will come with me, won't you?" There's a quality to his voice that Aziraphale isn't used to hearing, except in those desperate moments when it seems the world has grown too dark, and he squeezes Crowley's hand.

"Yes," he says. "If I won't be too much of a bother to have around." 

_You're never a bother_ , Crowley wants to say, but words are hard, especially words like that, and instead he just makes a sort of sputtering noise before collecting himself into a shape resembling a well-adjusted and mature adult male. "Oh no, angel, it'll be fine. It'll be great! Plenty of space. It'll be great." And he's talking too much, and he could've stopped after his first sentence, but his mouth has run away from him, and, well, that's just how it is.

"Oh, well, then. That sounds very nice." And a pause. "Thank you, my dear. I don't know...I don't know what I'd do, otherwise."

It's a strange idea for an angel to be homeless. But that's just what he is - his bookshop is gone, and Heaven does not seem like a place that would appreciate his presence, not after everything in Tadfield. Not after...well, Crowley. But he's not even sure he would want to go back there anyway, not after. Not now.

"Ah, y'know me! My place is too big for just me, anyway. You're welcome to stay." And there's something burrowed deep in Crowley's chest, something threatening to burst out if he were to let it, but he shoves it down. "Just don't go blessing everything, alright? My flat is perfectly happy in a stage of eternal damnation." He laughs, and Aziraphale gives him one of his tight smiles, the smiles that say _You're too much, Crowley,_ but also somehow seem to say _You're perfect_ too _._

The bus continues on, and they fall into silence again, Crowley's hand still clasped in Aziraphale's. Aziraphale thinks that they must make such a strange pair to the other passengers, but he's never much cared for what others may think. He gave up any semblance of that worry in Rome, or perhaps even earlier, in the Garden, when a certain snake transformed into a certain demon and looked at him with such kind laughter.

And eventually, they arrive in front of a rather tall and imposing building that looks like it came straight out of the 1970s, and Aziraphale has been here before, but never like this. Never after Armageddon. Never with Crowley's hand in his.

Crowley leads them up, weary body after weary body, and leads them inside to his flat. It's all stone and cold, just as Aziraphale remembered it. It resembles Heaven, but it lacks that certain air of bureaucracy. He's glad for it.

Crowley slips his hand from Aziraphale's, and he feels a strange sense of loss. He watches, almost frozen in the hallway, as Crowley dips into the kitchen and reemerges with two bottles of wine.

"Was a good year," Crowley says, sauntering into the sitting room, uncorking the bottles as he went. Aziraphale follows. "1793, d'you remember that one, angel?"

"How could I forget?" Aziraphale laughs. "You appeared in my cell like a...a gothic sans-culotte!" Crowley shoots him a grin.

"I did, indeed. And you were ever-so-grateful, weren't you?"

"Oh, my dear, yes."

They sit in chairs that haven't seen much sitting, and Crowley passes him one of the bottles. They're past the point of glasses, past the point of moderation. Aziraphale immediately takes a drink - _he's_ past the point of moderation, after all - and sits back in the chair. It's uncomfortable, but his body is strangely weary, and he's thankful to be here. Here, safe. Here, with Crowley.

Crowley is still drinking from his bottle, and Aziraphale knows that they're in for a night. And there is no one he'd rather drink with than Crowley, so he drinks again.

"Angel," Crowley says, sounding waterlogged.

"Yes, my dear boy?"

"Angel," Crowley insists.

"Yes?"

"Are you...y'know?"

"Am I what?" And Aziraphale feels entirely too sober all of a sudden, but his bottle is already empty.

"Happy?"

"Oh, yes, of course, I'm happy!" Aziraphale exclaims. "Armageddon has been averted."

"Oh, yeah...yeah."

A pause. Aziraphale swallows. "Did you...perhaps mean something else?"

"It's just. Okay. It's just that we've been through a lot." Crowley is slumped back in his chair now, and there's an itch in Aziraphale's fingers to lean forward, to put one hand on each arm and pull him close, and where is _that_ coming from?

"We have."

"It's a lot of history. A lot of me saving you and maybe you saving me and - angel, it's a lot! And I dunno; I can't read your mind, though sometimes it feels like I can, but right now I can't, and I don't know how you're feeling. I don't know if you're happy. I don't know if you want to keep doing this." And Crowley knows he's talking too much; he's too much, and he keeps going until his breath feels like dust in his throat.

"My dear," Aziraphale whispers in response. And he follows his itch, then, and he leans forward, and he grasps Crowley's arms where they're limp against his sides, and he holds him gently. "I will always be happy with you."

To them both, it feels as though the Earth has shifted just a minuscule amount to the left, and they have both forgotten their wine, and Aziraphale leans his forehead against Crowley's shoulder and doesn't dare to breathe.

"Okay," Crowley says. "That's good."

And it is good. It is very good.

Aziraphale is still crouched against Crowley's form when, a moment later, Crowley starts into motion, nearly knocking Aziraphale down.

"The piece of paper!" he exclaims. "That piece of paper you grabbed from the girl's book!"

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale says, sitting on the floor - for the chair is ever so far away - and pulling it from his pocket.

"D'you think it's important?" Crowley asks, leaning close to see what it says.

"I imagine it is, my dear. I'm fairly certain the other prophecies were as well, so I see no reason why this one would be any different."

"Hmmmm..." And they look at each other, and they sober up. Back into the fray.

"I may have an idea, but it's...well, it's not without risk. Remember how Gabriel looked at us at the airfield? He will likely call me back upstairs tomorrow."

"Ugh, so'll Beez."

Aziraphale gives him a wry smile. "Yes, indeed. And I don't think either of ours will be particularly kind to us."

"Yeah, mine'll probably want me to take a nice...quick bath. Or maybe just a splash. Either way, it won't be pretty, and it'll ruin my new jacket."

Aziraphale looks at him. "It'll do more than that. Mine will probably want me to burn." His tone is contemplative, but Crowley knows that this is more than a theoretical problem for him.

"When I first met you, you were a snake," Aziraphale continues. "Do you think you could...take another form, like that, again?"

"Well, yeah, but you know that, angel. You can too, can't you?"

"Yes. But, see, what I was thinking...Do you know of Achilles and Patroclus?"

"I know of Hector."

"Of course you do. But I'm sure you know of Achilles and Patroclus as well?"

"Yes, yes, angel. Yes. Are you suggesting..."

"I'm suggesting that we do what Patroclus did for Achilles, for each other. And ideally, neither of us would die. Or, well, be discorporated."

Crowley gives him a long look. " _Angel_."

"I know it's risky. I know."

Crowley's long look turns into a smirk, turns into a smile. "Are you saying you want to get into my pants?"

"What! No. _Crowley_." Aziraphale turns the exact shade of a strawberry, and Crowley laughs.

"But yes, I'll do it. I think it's our best shot. Wanna give it a try?"

Aziraphale knows that they should try it now, that they should practice and perfect it, but right now, after everything, he just wants to be himself. He feels like he hasn't been himself for perhaps a very long time. He's been looking to Heaven for far too long.

He says as much to Crowley, before he even realizes he has said it.

"I've said this before, but you and I, we aren't so different," Crowley says softly. His hand has found its way into Aziraphale's again, and Aziraphale is rendered breathless.

"An angel and a demon?"

"And I think we're both a little bit human, too. Somewhere along the way, we picked something up."

And just like humans, they're both a little bit tired too. Can't blame them - they've had a very long day, after all. Crowley sets an alarm on his phone, and they decide to test their plan first thing in the morning.

For now, though, it's time for them to be themselves. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Hollow Men" by TS Eliot.
> 
> My first fic in years, and of course, it's for these two.


End file.
